Soul Mate
by SparkilyDragnStikers
Summary: Reason says I should have died three years ago. You just shouldn't outlive your best friend when you have no immune system. But life doesn't always work so logically. Roger's point of view, not supposed to be slash
1. Chapter 1

Alrighty, new story. Yay. Okay, since I finished this story before I posted it, I just decided to put it all up at once, because it really flows better if there aren't really big gaps between the chapters. But review anyway, even though you don't need to to get me to post more of it!

Disclaimer: I don't own Rent

---

The chill was sharp against Roger's face as he stood, staring at her grave. He hated how numb he felt about her death. It was wrong that he should feel so little grief. When she died, the feeling that had spread through his chest was more like relief. No more of this pain. For either one of them.

She had suffered so much in the end. Maybe weighed ninety-seven pounds, circles under her eyes, skin grayed and ashy. And that was just physically. When Mimi's health had declined, so slowly at first and then more and more rapidly, like a snowball rolling down a steep hill, going faster and faster, getting bigger and bigger, something inside of her soul changed. The light that had been in her eyes was put out once she was confined to a hospital bed. The light that had shone out so brightly was snuffed and whatever Roger said, did, or even sang could not bring it back. A candle with no wick simply melts when exposed to flame.

It happened one month, one week, and six days ago. She slipped away and she was glad to go. The body she had once pushed to its greatest extent was no longer of any use to her.

Roger understood, somehow, her desire to leave the world before she felt worse.

He wouldn't want to go through it either.

It had hit Mark hard, because he didn't understand. Roger had come to accept how humans fit in in the life cycle. Everyone dies. It is just a matter of when and how. Mark would never understand that. He was still grieving Angel when Collins slipped away, and Collins when Mimi did. He himself slipped into a depression, crying for hours in his bed at night, trying to stifle the noise of his sobs, but to little avail. They had kept Roger awake. He could see in his mind, poor Mark, curled under his covers, clutching at his pillow, crying crying crying. Sometimes Roger would get up from his bed and slip into Mark's, hold him until he was asleep, wipe away his tears.

Just because Roger had not felt as much about Mimi's death as he should have, didn't mean he didn't miss her. He did. A lot. Her carefree lifestyle, her hair in the moonlight, her kisses, her touch. He thought about her often.

But he still felt numb.

And he returned to her grave a lot, trying to stir up some sort of emotion. It was emotion he lacked, it was as though his heart was cold and unfeeling now. Not even death could penetrate it. April Angel Collins Mimi. Then Roger. Himself. He would be next.

Collins died just weeks before Mimi. Before his death, it had seemed he would outlive her. That he would live for a long while yet.

But after Angel died, Collins's health started slipping more quickly than Mimi's.

Roger wished he could say the same about himself and Mimi. He would have given anything to have had such a connection with someone that her death would cause him to start on the road to his own. But no. In the time she had been gone, Roger had felt fine. Maybe even better than he had before.

_But just because Roger had not felt as much about Mimi's death as he should have, didn't mean he didn't miss her. _

"I love you, Mimi," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

He looked at the stone her name was carved on for another moment, then turned around. He wanted to visit Collins and Angel, just for a moment.

Their graves were right beside each other. Collins family, who just seemed to appear out of the woodwork as soon as he was dead, wanted him buried where the rest of his relatives were, in a Catholic cemetery on the other side of the city. It was Mimi, sick as she was at the time, who managed to convince his old mother and his aunts that he would rather be buried here. With his Angel. It took a hell of a lot of convincing. As it turned out, only his mother even knew that he was gay.

Soul mates, that's what Angel and Collins had been. There was a deep connection there, that though Roger had loved both April and Mimi, was never present with either one of them.

"You guys are lucky," he said with a small smile. "Together forever. I don't doubt it." Roger allowed himself the mental picture that he loved so much. The one where Angel was an actually angel, standing behind the two graves with his wings extended, his arms around Collins's waist, both of them smiling and waving at Roger.

With a sigh, Roger turned around and headed for home. Mark would be wondering where he was pretty soon, and Roger didn't want to talk about it.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I still don't own Rent

---

"Where've you been?"

"Nowhere."

"I was just wondering; you're really late."

"I haven't been anywhere, Mark, leave me alone!"

Mark pouted and turned back to the footage he was looking over. "No need to yell at me. I was just—"

"Worried?" Roger spat. Even as the venom left his mouth he wondered why he was so mean to Mark all the time. "Always worried. You're as bad as your mother."

"Sorry…." Mark muttered, getting quiet.

Roger took off his jacket and stuffed it into the closet beside the door, not bothering to hang it up. It joined the pile of jackets, hats, scarves, and gloves on the floor. He went up behind Mark and looked over his shoulder at the screen. Images flashed across it. Birds picking at garbage in the park, close up on a moldy lemon peel. A dead flower, stepped on after a moment by an uncaring boot. A tight shot of two guys kissing, followed by a guy and a girl holding hands and talking, their words unheard. A man at the drugstore, wanting change for a ten. Someone yelling at the camera in the lobby of a theatre gesturing to get the hell out. Mark and two random teenagers passing around a bottle of Coke and drinking from it. The same two guys from before pulling apart from the kiss and looking at each other. Then a grave. At first the shot was from far away, slowly closing in on the stone. Cut. By. Cut. When the camera was close enough to see the grave, you could see that all it said were the words "Long Forgotten."

Roger did not understand the meaning or artistic interpretation of the film. But it was a cool trick.

"How'd you do that?"

Mark cleared his throat and swallowed hard, grimacing as he did. His voice sounded dry and a bit scratchy. "My secret."

Roger nodded. He wanted to ask what the film meant, but he knew better. Ever since Collins died, Mark's films had been getting weirder and more random, with vague messages that no one but Mark could possibly understand. He asked once, after a particularly strange film, what message Mark was trying to give, and he had said, "It's not so much a message. It's a feeling. I'm trying to convey thoughts and feelings. I didn't expect you to understand."

Mark studied the images over and over. "Um, is it finished?" Roger asked. Mark just flipped off the small TV and sighed.

"Not even close. It's crap."

"Are you okay? You sound kinda off."

Mark shrugged, straightening his glasses. "I don't really feel well. I have a sore throat. Have all day, but it's getting worse."

"Why don't you go to bed?" Roger suggested.

"Why don't you tell me where you were?"

Roger ran a hand through his hair and sighed loudly. "Look, I was at the cemetery, okay?"

Mark looked at him, his features stony. "Who were you visiting?"

"Mimi. Went to see Collins and Angel for a minute too, though." Mark just nodded, his eyes dropping to the floor, suddenly looking upset.

"I'm gonna go lie down. I'm exhausted."

"Okay."

He disappeared down the short hallway to his bedroom, then Roger heard his footsteps stop suddenly, and heard him shout, in an almost panicky voice, "Rog, please don't forget your AZT."

"Mark?"

"I'm asleep."

Roger chuckled, went in to Mark's darkened room, and turned on the lamp beside Mark's bed. Mark did not sit up, just looked at Roger, squinting a little. He looked like he had been trying to sleep, perhaps hovering in that space between consciousness and slumber for an hour or so, but had not managed to drift off. His hair was on end, his glasses on the bedside table, his face splotched with pink.

Careful not to spill, Roger set down a mug of tea on the table, placing beside it a tablet of aspirin. "For your throat," he explained.

Mark smiled. "Thanks, Rog, you're the best." He sat up slowly and took the pill, swallowing a sip of hot tea with it. He made a face like the drink had burnt his mouth.

"You okay?"  
"Won't be able to taste for a day, but it could be worse."

Roger laughed a little. Mark smiled, but it disappeared quickly and he squeezed his eyes shut. Roger's eyebrows knitted together. "What?"

But Mark shook his head, then said a quiet "Ouch," like the movement had hurt. He rubbed his neck, and smiled feebly at Roger. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I hardly ever get sick."

"You'll probably feel better in the morning," Roger said with a shrug.

"Yeah. Thanks for the tea."

"No problem."

"Goodnight."

"'Night, Mark."

Mark closed his eyes, sighing sleepily. His eyelids looked so heavy as they closed, Roger could almost feel that itchy sensation of needing sleep.

But Roger had not slept properly in one month, one week, and six days, and he did not feel like trying. He wandered to the living room and sat down on the floor with his guitar. He strummed as quietly as possible, singing in whispers his song he had written for his Mimi.

Mark slept very late the next morning. Roger was already up and dressed, had walked to the Life Café for a coffee to-go, and had arranged a gig for next week and still heard no sign of life from behind Mark's door.

A little worried (though he would never actually admit it), Roger opened the door slowly and peaked inside the dim room. "Mark?" he whispered.

The figure in the bed stirred, then Mark's eyes opened blearily.

"Didn't mean to wake you up," Roger said untruthfully.

"I was awake already."

Wow. Roger was a little blown away by the sound of Mark's voice. It was quiet and strained and weak. Barely more than a whisper, and a very painful-sounding whisper at that.

"You okay?"

"I'm sick," Mark rasped needlessly.

"No, really, I couldn't tell. You sound awful. Do you need anything?" He made to walk over to Mark's bed, but Mark said,

"Wait!" He paused a moment. "Maybe you shouldn't come in here. I mean, if you catch my cold…."

Mark did not need to finish the thought.

"I'll be fine, quit being paranoid," said Roger.

"Rog…."

But Roger, knowing he had the upper hand in being (outwardly) in better health than Mark, crossed the cluttered floor of Mark's bedroom, stepping on discarded dirty clothes, and over film equipment that Roger neither knew nor cared to know the use for but that looked important. He put his palm on Mark's forehead. "I think you have a fever."

"Get out of here!" Mark insisted in his hoarse voice. "Did you take your meds this morning?"

"No."

Mark sat up quickly, then clutched the back oh his neck with a grimace on his face. "Ow, shit…."

"I was just kidding!" Roger told him quickly, reaching out to help Mark lay back down again. "Sarcasm! I took them. I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

"I dunno…. That was really weird. My neck was stiff last night, but now it hurts really bad…."

Roger's eyes shifted a bit. "You just… stay where you are then. Do you need anything?"

"I need you to get your AIDS ridden body out of my room before you die!"

"Shut up!" Roger snapped. "I can take care of myself."

"Then go take care of yourself!"

A retaliation to this, involving how Roger would rather take care of Mark, formed in his mind, but it sounded stupid and corny rather than threatening, so he kept his mouth shut. He stormed out.

And returned a minute later with pain pills and a glass of ice water. He slammed the cup down on Mark's bedside table.

"Take it. And don't say I never do anything for you."

He left the room to go play his guitar and calm down.

How could Mark act like this? He was sick and he thought that Roger didn't see the danger of it. Did he think Roger was completely stupid? It wasn't like he was going to go drinking off of Mark's straw, or lying in bed with him. He just wanted to help and not feel fucking useless. He had been fucking useless when Angel was sick, and then Collins, and then Mimi. Always useless. This time there was something Roger could do. Mark wasn't dying, so Roger could take some of his pain away. He could be use_ful_.

So he was. For the rest of that day and the next, he took the best care of Mark that Mark would allow, getting him pain medicine for his throat, borrowing an electric heating pad from Joanne for his neck, making him tea and bringing him cold water. Mark protested, but he did not really have the energy to protest well.

It felt good to have something to do, someone to care for. It kept Roger from dwelling too much in the past if he could occupy his mind with present matters.

Like Mark's spiking fever.

But nothing to worry about there. Nothing a little Tylenol, a cold cloth, and one less blanket couldn't solve.

Right?

Roger had band practice tonight, and they had a gig soon. He really couldn't miss.

But Mark was getting worse.

That morning, Roger went into Mark's room, and the moment he turned on the light, Mark moaned.

"What?"

"Shut that off, it's hurting my eyes."

His voice was horribly strained, like each word was a terrible effort to expel.

Roger flipped the light switch down.

Even in the darkness, Roger could see how awful Mark looked. His skin was splotchy with a weird-looking rash and his eyes were sticky and swollen. Roger smoothed Mark's hair off his forehead gently as he felt his temperature.

"You are positively burning up. How's your neck feel?"

"Ow," was all Mark said in reply.

Roger squatted down beside the bed. "Look, I have practice tonight, do you want me too—"

"Go."

"But what if—?"

Mark squeezed his eyes shut tightly as some sort of reply.

Roger hesitated. "You sure you'll be okay?"

"Yes." Mark whispered.

Still. Roger did not want to leave him by himself. What if he got really thirsty or something? He almost felt stupid that he was so concerned over a bout of the flu, but he couldn't help it. Mark felt awful, it was obvious.

There was only one solution.

Call in backup.

He picked up the phone and dialed.

"Hey!"

"Maureen? Could you come over here? Mark's sick."

"What!" she exclaimed, her voice changing to horrified….

"No," Roger said quickly, "not like that. He's fine. He's just got a sore throat and is feeling like shit. I gotta get to practice, so get your ass over here."

"God, can't Mark take care of his own cold? I'm busy."

"… With what?"

"Um, hello? A Friday night? Am I ever NOT busy?"

Roger sighed, getting pissed.

"Do you ever think about anybody but yourself?"

He thought he heard a little thump in the background.

Maureen said, "Do _you_?"

Thump.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I fucking DO, which is why I'm calling!"

Thump. "Damn…."

Pause.

"Maureen, are you playing darts?"

"… Yes."

"Please tell me you aren't too busy _playing darts_ on a Friday night to watch after Mark. I thought you of all people had a _life_."

"I do! It's just… Joanne's pissed at me and threatening to kick me out again and I thought it was better if I stayed home tonight. She's not even here. Isn't that considerate of me?" Thump. "She'd be mad if I went over to Mark's…."

"Fine, you frigid bitch!" he shouted, about to hang up.

"Don't yell at me, asshole!"

"I'LL YELL AT WHOEVER I—" Roger suddenly remembered poor Mark trying to sleep on the other side of the wall. He dropped his voice. "At whoever I fucking well want to!"

"And you'll whisper at whoever you want to as well?"

"Maureen…."

She laughed. "I'll be over as soon as I can, okay? And don't worry, I won't let any harm befall your precious _husband_."

Roger just rolled his eyes, said thanks, and hung up quickly.

"Mark?" he shouted through the bedroom door. "Maureen will be over soon, if you need anything. See ya."

No response. He wasn't expecting one.

It felt good to hang out with the guys again, just laugh and jam and drink and not be concerned about tea and blankets. At first, he had still been worried, wondering if Maureen had even shown up. When Steve, the drummer, had shouted to Roger that his concentration was all off, Rog had had to resist the temptation to say why. The guys already thought he and Mark were closet-case lovers. No need to feed this incorrect assumption.

But after a few beers he loosened up and forgot about the sick filmmaker and thought only about how awesome the band sounded tonight and how they were gonna rock the hell out of their gig next week.

Back at the loft, Roger decided just to peek in on Mark and then go to sleep. He opened the door slowly.

Maureen was sitting on the edge of the bed, her head leaning against the wall, mouth open, dead asleep. Her hand was on Mark's head, as though she had drifted off while stroking his hair.

"Maureen!" Roger hissed.

She woke with a start, looking around for a moment before her eyes landed on Roger. She leaned her head back against the wall.

"Hey," he whispered.

"You owe me," she muttered sleepily. "You didn't tell me he was _this_ sick. I didn't know what to do with him. And if Joanne kicks me out, I so get your room—"

"Fine, whatever, you can have my fucking room," he said. "Is Mark okay?"

"How the hell should I know? Do I look like his mother?"

Actually, Maureen did look just a little like Mark's mother. Around the jaw area, and the eyes. Roger used to tease him about it when he was dating her.

Then she looked down at his face and ran a finger down his cheek. Her voice softened. "Actually, I don't think he is okay," she said. "I think he needs to see a doctor."

Roger ran a hand through his hair. "We don't have any money…. Well wait, there's the money we have saved for _my_ meds and doctor appointments. Maybe—"

"No, Rog," Maureen insisted. "Mark would kill you if you compromised your own health for him."

"Who says we have to tell him?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't you think he'd notice if a chunk of money was gone from you guys' little stash?"

"I can miss one appointment! It's not going to kill me!"

"You don't actually know that."

She said it so bluntly, so matter-of-factly, that it almost made Roger shiver.

"Fine," he snapped. "Then what do you suggest we do? We have no cash, no insurance, and no way to get any. The stupid bank went and fixed Angel's ATM a month ago."

"Joanne has money. She's out of town, but gets home in a few days. I'll talk to her about it. You won't have to pay her back," she added at the look on Roger's face. "At least I don't think so. She's not like that."

Roger sighed, nodding. He was too tired and drunk to want to think about any of this. "Why don't you go sleep in my room? I'll take the couch."

"Ordinarily," Maureen said, standing up and stretching her arms above her head, "I'd take you up on that. But I've been in here with sick lil' Marky. I don't want you to get sick. Even I'm not selfish enough to get your bed all contaminated and whatever. But I do insist on as many blankets and pillows as you can spare, and one extra that you can't. I can't believe you still have no heat!"


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: If I didn't own it last chapter, what makes you think I own it now?

---

One hundred and six point one.

It took a few tries before Roger actually managed how to read the stupid thermometer he had purchased at the drugstore this morning, but when he finally figured out how to catch the light just so on the instrument, that was the reading he got.

"I don't think that's good, is it?" he said, turning to Maureen, standing behind him like a nurse to a doctor.

"No," she said. "I don't think it is. I remember my mother saying you go to the doctor at 105, the emergency room at 107, and the grave at 108…." She paused a moment to consider. "Or maybe it was—"

"Never mind, Maureen."

She pouted a little, then went over to Mark, squeezing his hand. "I called Joanne. She's coming home early. She says she'll try to be here by tomorrow."

"That's good," Roger replied distractedly. "Nice of her."

But his heart wasn't in his words, nor was his mind. He could not take his eyes away from Mark's pallid face. He was sleeping (or so Roger assumed; sometimes it was hard to tell) but looked as if he were in pain even as he slumbered. Mimi had looked the same way.

It terrified him.

That day was one of the most agonizingly slow ones that Roger had experienced. Maureen was in and out of the loft, doing who-knows-what. Roger stayed home with Mark, trying to keep himself busy, but failing. Mark was almost too weak at this point to tell Roger what he needed.

But he _had_ to be bored too. He had done nothing but lie in bed for nearly a week.

So Roger grabbed one of Mark's favorite books out of the bookshelf and began reading out loud, sitting in the chair that Maureen had pulled up beside his bed. He didn't even know if Mark was listening at first, or if he was awake at all. But at a fairly funny sentence, Roger saw his lips curl upward a bit in a smile of sorts. So Roger read with more enthusiasm and intensity, trying to get Mark to picture the story, and trying to keep his own mind in it as well.

He read for a long time. His mouth was dry and papery, his voice tired, but when Mark gave a little groan to get him to stop, he didn't want to. He had developed a rhythm that he did not want to extract himself from. It was so disillusioning that he did not want to leave its comforts and come back to the real world where Mark was sick and Roger was sick and people were dead and more were dying.

"Mark?" he said quietly, brushing his friend's bangs aside. They were damp with sweat. Mark opened his eyes, squinting. "You'll pull through this. Are you feeling any better?"

"No," Mark mumbled in a voice that was not even a whisper. "Worse. Hurts…. Wanna… die."

"Don't say that!" Roger said sharply, standing up quickly. Mark closed his eyes and sighed pitiably.

"Rog?"

"Yeah?"

"…Play?"

Play? What the hell…?

Oh.

"Like, guitar?"

Mark breathed the word 'yeah'

Roger nodded and went to his room to grab his guitar. It took a few minutes for him to find a pick; he had not been carrying one around with him (something he usually would do) the past few days.

_God,_ he thought when he came back into the room, _he looks like he just got worse in the past two minutes_. His breathing was heavier, more rapid.

"Mark?"

He didn't answer. Roger sat down in the chair and put his hand on Mark's rash-covered cheek. "Hey," he said quietly. "What should I play? Any requests?"

Silence.

"Mark?"

Silence.

"Mark!"

"Musetta."

"Stay with me, buddy," he said bracingly, placing his fingers on the strings. "You'll be okay. Really."

He started to play the chords softly, willing his quickened heartbeat to slow down to the time of the music. One two three, one two three. You too, Mark, slow your breathing. Not so fast. One two three, one two three.

Roger played until he was sure that Mark had fallen asleep completely. Once he was, Roger placed his guitar against the bedside table and looked at Mark, listening to his ragged, uneven breathing. It didn't sound normal. It sounded scary.

"Mark?" he said uneasily. When he got no reply, he took his friend's hand in his. It was positively on fire with fever. "You just hold on. I'm getting you to a doctor tomorrow whether you like it or not. I don't care if I never get AZT again." And then he did something that he had never done before, and doubted he would ever do again; he kissed Mark gently on the forehead. I was no more or less than the worried, loving kiss of a best friend. An expression of a connection deeper than any romance.

He fell asleep, half in the chair, half in Mark's bed, still holding on to Mark's hand.

Roger woke to sunlight streaming through the cracks in the blinds over Mark's window. He lifted his head off of the mattress, where it had been resting. He had not even been aware of falling asleep. It seemed as though it was but moments ago that he had put his head down at all.

He was still holding Mark's hand. And it was cool. He smiled a little. Mark's fever must have broken in the night. Good. It was about time.

Getting up, he cast Mark a supportive look before going to the kitchen to get him a glass of water for when he woke up. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was already past noon. It would not be much longer before Mark woke, if he was really getting better.

Roger put the cup on the table, right over the watermark ring that had appeared over the past week.

Suddenly his eyebrows knitted together. He had a feeling of foreboding in the pit of his stomach. Something was wrong…. Something was very, very wrong….

He looked back down at Mark. His face was even greyer than it had been. Roger studied him a moment.

Then his stomach clenched painfully.

Was it his imagination, or was Mark not breathing?

"Mark?" he said cautiously. Then he shouted it. "MARK!"  
He leaned down frantically over his friend, shaking him back and forth, almost violently. "MARK!" Fumbling, he grabbed Mark's wrist.

No pulse.

"No no no no no…."

He put his fingers on Mark's neck, his other hand over his heart. No beating in either place.

He felt dizzy. He was suffocating. This couldn't be happening. Not Mark.

"MARK!" he screamed again. "Mark, please…. Wake up, please, you have to wake up! Your fever broke! DO YOU HEAR ME? YOUR GODDAMNED FEVER BROKE! NOW GET UP!"

But even as he said it, he realized it. Mark's fever had never gone down. It had gone up and up until his heart stopped and he grew stiff and cold….

"Please, Mark," he said quietly, hopelessly. "Don't do this. Mark…."

Roger knelt down beside him, pleading. "Mark, please. Get up, please." His voice grew choked and tears collected in his eyes. "Mark, I love you, I need you, you're all I have. You're my best… no, my only friend, Mark, please…."

But there was no answer.

"Collins!" Roger shouted. He needed Collins. Collins would know what to do. Collins could keep his head, could think. Roger could not think. The only person left in this world that he cared about lay lifeless before him. He needed Collins here.

Roger climbed onto Mark's bed and put his arms around his friend, saying his name over and over, tears streaming down his face. It would be okay. Really. Mark was fine. He would be fine. Roger told him that again and again, trying to make himself believe it.

The door opened slowly.

"Rog? Joanne's here. Is he asleep? Roger? What are you—?"

Roger just stared at the women before him, a haunted look in his eyes. Joanne walked over, clicking on the light as she did. After a moment, she grabbed Mark's wrist like Roger had, then dropped it and gasped.

"Is he—?"

Roger dug his fingernails into his palm, squeezing his eyes shut as tightly as they could.

"Oh… oh my god." Joanne stammered, backing away.

"POOKIE!" Maureen screamed. Joanne looked over at her, but Maureen was not talking to her. She was staring at Mark.

"We… have to call…" was all Joanne said before bustling from the room.

Roger got off of the bed and away from Mark suddenly. Maureen was sobbing. Roger couldn't watch it. Couldn't stay here. He couldn't stay and watch as Maureen cried and Joanne took charge and the police came….

A body bag.

Like with April.

It was happening again.

Oh god.

This wasn't possible.

Not Mark.

This wasn't real.

Roger felt nauseous.

He could not watch this.

As suddenly as April's suicide, Roger left the loft, panicking completely. He clomped down the stairs, his ears ringing, dashing into the sunlight. How could it be so sunny and nice? He walked quickly quickly, trying to get out of hearing range….

But he couldn't. Behind his back he heard the sirens' howls.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Okay, so these diclaimers are compltetly redundant, but I hate leaving it all blank at the top

---

The doctors did their examination as doctors will. The diagnosis (or whatever they called it when you're already dead; Roger didn't know) was a disease called meningitis. Roger listened as the examiner explained it. It was some sort of swelling or something in the spinal cord that's passed through saliva. Really deadly if not caught and treated within a few days. Roger was hardly listening. He wondered instead about the man telling him about it. The examiner at the morgue. Roger could not see how someone could make a living out of looking at dead bodies.

And it was awkward too, because Roger could not grasp the fact that Mark was just a dead body now. That this man had been examining Mark, but it hadn't been Mark, it had just been another body, because Mark was dead.

Mark was dead.

Was it possible to use those words in a sentence that way?

They made no sense arranged in that way. It was like using horrible grammar. It was wrong, Roger half-expected some old English teacher to pop out of nowhere and correct him were he to say those words like that.

On top of it all, Joanne insisted that Roger go see a doctor.

He was in too much pain because of Mark's death to argue.

They took tests and stuck an IV in him for a few hours and gave him antibiotics to take, just in case he had contracted it. It all went by in sort of a blur, and he was out of the hospital before nightfall.

"Roger?"

He was at Joanne and Maureen's apartment. He couldn't bring himself to go back to the loft. He just sat on the couch with his knees drawn up to his chest, staring at the pattern in the rug. Joanne had obviously chosen it. It was too proper-looking for Maureen. All wine-red with swirls and diamonds and deep blue. Mark's mom would have liked it. Mark would have liked it too, but said he hated it because it was something his mom would like.

He felt Joanne come up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. Roger flinched at the contact. "Roger, honey?"

"Don't touch me, please," he said tonelessly. She removed her hand and looked at him sadly. He kept his eyes firmly on a forest green swirl.

"Are you just gonna sleep on the couch tonight?"

Roger did not feel a need to answer her.

"Do you… want some blankets?"

"No."

Joanne sighed heavily and sat down beside him. "I was talking to his father…."

"You can say his name."

She seemed taken aback. "I was talking to… Mark's… father. They want the funeral to be held in Scarsdale. Their making arrangements tomorrow, and he was wondering if you wanted to have a part in planning—"

"Funerals are stupid."

"Roger, what—?"

He didn't take his eyes from the carpet. "Some senile old priest says how wonderful a person was when he didn't even know them, saying things that don't matter, then he sticks them in the ground and does it again tomorrow for another person he doesn't know."

"His parents were fighting, evidently," Joanne continued, sounding more like she was talking to herself than to Roger. But he listened because what other choice did he have? "Because his mother's Jewish and his father's Christian…."

"Mark's Jewish like his mom, not many people know that because he never talked about it."

"Oh…. I'll… tell them that."

Roger lapsed into silence. He didn't want to talk about any of this. In fact, he would not be disappointed if he never had to talk again.

Joanne gasped as if she just remembered something important, disappeared into the kitchen, and reappeared a moment later.

"Roger, you need to take your medication."

He finally looked up, just raising his eyes, seeing her through his bangs. She held two medicine bottles in one hand and a glass of water in the other. She set them down on the coffee table (carefully putting a coaster under the water) and looked at him expectantly. He just stared at her.

"Take them."

"What's the point?"

She paused a moment, gauging whether or not he was kidding. When he made no move for the antibiotics and AZT, her features hardened. "Don't do this, Roger."

"I don't wanna take it. I won't."  
"Roger!"

"There's no point! I'm not taking it!" he shouted, standing up quickly.

"You are acting like a child!" Joanne yelled back, taking the pills out of the containers and holding them out to him. "So I will act like your mother. You will take these pills, Roger Davis. Right now."

Angrily, Roger snatched the pills from her hand and shoved them in his mouth. He arranged them so that they were hidden under his tongue and then took a sip of water, not swallowing even one of them. Joanne glared from behind her glasses.

"Open your mouth," she said threateningly. Roger did. "Lift up your tongue."

Roger closed his mouth and looked daggers at her.

"Nice try." She handed him the glass of water. Grudgingly, he swallowed the pills.

Then he smashed the glass down onto the table with all the force he could, shards of it flying everywhere, water splashing the carpet and table and Joanne.

The two of them stared each other down. The only sound was muffled wailing from the other room, where Maureen was crying.

Then, without a word, Joanne went to get a cloth and a vacuum and began silently cleaning up the mess.

Roger threw himself onto the couch, putting a pillow over his head and tensing all his muscles. For a moment he thought he would start crying. He wished he would start crying. He screwed up his face and squinted his eyes and tried to summon tears to comfort him, but they would not come.

He listened to the sounds of Joanne cleaning, thinking about how vacuum cleaners were just too loud. When she shut it off and closed it back in the closet he was grateful.

Until his ears zeroed in on Maureen's loud sobbing.

It was so obnoxious, Roger wanted to go and hit her. But he didn't because that would just be too mean, even for him. Even for him when his best friend was dead.

Was he really? Was Mark _really_ gone? For some reason it didn't seem possible. It seemed like this was a tough time, a hard time, that would eventually pass and Mark would be there again. Gone for a while, not forever.

How the hell was he supposed to deal with the death of his best friend without his best friend?


	5. Chapter 5

Here is the blank space...

---

So, evidently, Jews didn't have open-casket funerals, and Roger thought that Mr. and Mrs. Cohen would get a divorce over the issue.

He heard the whole story from Joanne, even though he didn't really care.

"The poor woman is a wreck, all she wants is for her son to have a proper Jewish burial, but his father is just as insistent. I hate seeing grown men cry, and he was crying and screaming and…."

Roger listened only until he heard what would be happening: Mark would have an open casket.

Oh goodie.

"You have to, Roger."

"Why? I don't feel like it. Mark doesn't fucking care what I wear to his fucking funeral."

"It's respectful."

"Yeah, and since when has that sort of thing mattered? It's Mark. I've never dressed up to go see Mark before. I don't see why I should start now."

"I'm calling a cab for you right this second."

"I hate you."

Joanne, who had been reaching for the phone, paused a moment. Then picked it up.

"I do," Roger continued. "I hate you."

"Roger!"

It was Maureen. She came from the hall. Her eyes were really swollen. Roger ignored her.

"I hate you so much it makes me sick," he spat. "I hope you die next."

He felt sharp pain on his cheek as Maureen smacked him. It had been with an open palm, but when he shook off the shock of it and looked at her, she was pulling back her fist.

"Don't you EVER say anything like that!" she shouted furiously, her eyes burning like fire. "She's doing the best she can, you leave her alone!"

"I'd leave her alone if she'd leave me alone," Roger protested. "But no. She's all, 'take your medicine,' 'wash your hair,' 'get dolled up for Marky's funeral!' I WON'T!"  
He stormed out of the room, hearing Joanne mutter, "Poor guy," under her breath to Maureen. It just made him angrier. He didn't want sympathy. He wanted to be left alone.

Roger went into Joanne and Maureen's bedroom. It really did look like what would happen if a Joanne Bomb and a Maureen Bomb hit each other and blew up inside of a room. It was impeccably neat, with almost a compulsive atmosphere, but the decorations were whimsical and bright. He snatched the phone off the bedside table, sprawling himself on the mattress. He realized that this was where Joanne and Maureen slept every night. Where they slept together.

He tried to imagine that but couldn't. It was too weird.

Mark had said that once. That he just couldn't see Joanne and Maureen having sex. Ever. That they were just too wrong for each other. He never really did get over Maureen. It was sad, because it was obvious that it always hurt him to even look at her, because he cared about her so much. Roger wondered if Maureen still loved him too and that was why she couldn't stop crying.

Not that it would matter since Mark would never love anybody again.

Roger turned onto his back and held the phone over his head, dialing the numbers that he still knew, after all this time of not using them.

"Hi, you've reached Alicia Davis. I'm not here right now, please leave a message after the beep."

"Um, hey, Mom," Roger said quietly into the phone, "it's me." He didn't know what to say now. He wasn't expecting an answering machine. "I just… I guess I thought you should know that Mark got sick and he died a few days ago. Call me if you wanna go to the funeral. Yeah, so, I guess that's it. Yeah. I love you. Bye."

When he hung up, Roger, for some reason, wished he had more people to tell. Saying it out loud gave him a weird feeling that he wanted to feel again. He didn't know why. It was a sick impulse. It still didn't feel real, maybe that was why he wanted to say it. Why he could say it with little problem. Mark is dead. Mark died. Nothing but grammatically incorrect sentences.

Nothing more.

Joanne won the dressing up battle to a certain extent. She went herself to the loft, where she grabbed a pair of black jeans, a black shirt, and a black jacket.

"You had messages on your answering machine," she told him as she handed him the clothes. "You mother said that she is devastated about Mark, but she can't get off time for the funeral."

The morning of the funeral, Roger took a shower, washing his dirty hair with the fruity, girlie shampoo in the shower. _I smell like Angel_, he thought as he stepped out of the steam and onto the tile floor. It was a big bathroom (the whole apartment was fairly big, because of Joanne's job). He glanced at his reflection. He was clean now, but his eyes had circles under them, and had an empty look inside of them. He didn't look like himself, not how he remembered he looked. But he didn't dwell on it. It didn't matter. He dried off quickly and put on the clothes that Joanne had brought him from the loft. Roger wore black a lot anyway, so he didn't feel like he was dressing up to see his best friend.

Roger jumped up onto the fake marble countertop and reached for the blue jeans that he had been wearing these past few days. He reached into one of the pockets and pulled them out. He'd taken them when he returned to the loft the day after it happened. He didn't know why, wasn't sure why it was so important to him to have them, but it was.

Mark's glasses.

When Mark looked at anything, he looked at them through these lenses and frames. He never looked quite right without them. They were a part of his face and whenever Roger saw Mark in his head, it was with these same glasses perched on his nose.

Roger slipped them onto his own face. Suddenly the whole world went insane, things going in and out of focus, one moment too clear, the next moment blurry. Was that what Mark saw when he didn't wear them? This disorienting mess? Probably not, because he only squinted when he didn't wear them, he didn't seem dizzy or like things were distorted. All Roger knew was that in the morning, Mark put these on and he could suddenly see.

Could he see now? In heaven or wherever Mark was, were his eyes fixed? For some reason, in Roger's mind, he could not picture angel-Mark without glasses. So maybe he still needed them.

Or maybe there was no heaven and he was nowhere he was just gone and would never see anything again.

Roger took the glasses off because he was starting to get a headache. He slipped them into his pocket and jumped down off the counter to tell Joanne and Maureen that he was ready to go to calling hours when they were.

Joanne and Maureen walked into the room, holding each other's hands tightly. Roger followed behind them, his hands in his pockets and his head down. There were a lot of really uncomfortable-looking foldout chairs. Not many people were sitting in them. A lady who looked like she was probably Mark's grandmother sat on the edge of one, like a younger, more able family member had told her to stay put until someone was ready to take her up to see her grandson.

At the end of the room, flanked by little tables with sickly-sweet flowers on them, was the casket. It was very nice, far nicer than any of his other friends had been able to afford. But Mark's parents had a lot of money, so Mark would have a nice funeral. It was a sham, it was such a fucking lie. Mark had lived his whole adult life in poverty, trying to be an artist. He had not asked for any money from his parents since the time several years ago that he desperately needed a computer for his editing. And now this fancy funeral? He wouldn't want it, not after the things he had seen. He wouldn't want this elaborate, oak, bronze-trimmed casket when he had seen Mimi lain in what was essentially a wooden box. He would not see the point in buying him new clothes to be buried in when Angel had been so horribly thin when he died that he couldn't even be buried in his favorite dress. And shipping in family from all over the country? Most of Collins's extended family refused to even attend his funeral after finding out that he wanted to be buried beside his gay lover.

No. Mark wouldn't want all of this. Not that he didn't deserve it, because Roger could not think of anyone who deserved it more. But Mark wouldn't _want_ it.

Roger watched as Mark's mom walked over to the casket, holding a tissue up to her mouth and sobbing silently as she looked at him. Roger saw her shoulders shaking. Her husband, Mark's father, came over and put a loving arm around her and they both looked inside the box. And then he started crying too. Mark's father, his fucking father, was crying unabashedly.

Suddenly Roger felt fear grip him from the inside. He remembered that morning, when he had been so happy to feel Mark's skin as cold. He hadn't understood, and then he realized it and immediately he had wondered how he could ever have thought there was life inside of there. Mark's essence was so obviously gone, it was like a sick sort of statue of him and Roger did not want to see that again.

He had to avoid that casket at all costs.

He started to turn around. He could just wait outside for Maureen and Joanne right? But Joanne grabbed his arm just as he started to walk away. She knew what he was doing, and wouldn't let him walk out.

"Let go of me," he whispered frantically. "I gotta get outta here. I gotta get outta here…."

I gotta get outta here its like I'm being tied to the hood of a yellow rental truck being packed in with fertilizer and fuel oil being pushed over a cliff by a suicidal Mickey Mouse.

I gotta get outta here.

Let me outta here.

Please.

"Let me go," he pleaded, sounding like a scared child.

"You'll regret it if you don't, Roger," Joanne said kindly, sadly. "I swear to you, you will regret it the rest of your life if you don't get to look at Mark one last time."

"That's not Mark in there!" he breathed tearfully. "It's not, it's a shell, I don't care about the shell, I want Mark! I want to talk to Mark!"

Which made Maureen start crying again.

"Honeybear," Joanne whispered, letting go of Roger and returning to her partner, drying tears, holding hands. Roger hugged himself, staring at the casket like a mortal enemy. A mortal enemy who had to be conquered, if Roger was brave enough.

One step. Another step. Slow and unsure. Faltering. There is nothing to be scared about, he told himself. Absolutely nothing. Another step. He was getting awfully close, but it was taking an awfully long time. Mark's parents had already retreated to a corner, where Mrs. Cohen was trying to recompose herself (and failing). Joanne and Maureen were at the casket and it looked as though Maureen could barely even support herself, but wasn't crying anymore. Roger continued inching closer, touching the cold metal of each chair as he passed them.

He was only feet away now. Joanne looked at him, and with a little nod, led Maureen (who was not looking at Mark anymore anyway, but had her head on Joanne's shoulder) away. Roger swallowed hard, then took the final few steps.

What he saw did not scare him as badly as he thought it would. Mark lay in the casket on lavender satin. Roger snorted quietly, because Mark hated lavender. He was dressed in a grey shirt and black dress pants. They must have bought him new glasses, because he was wearing them and Roger knew that he didn't have an extra pair and Roger had the originals. His hands were on his stomach, beneath them lay a tape.

So at least they did something right.

Roger wondered if there was anything on it. Probably not, but at least someone had thought to do that. It meant a lot.

It was so obviously not Mark. He didn't look asleep. He didn't look dead. He looked fake. There was makeup on his face, covering the rash he had died with and all other imperfections. He looked like a mannequin of Mark. It was a little creepy, but didn't bother Roger much.

Having never taken his hands out of his pockets, Roger slouched toward the door. He could wait outside now. Not even Joanne tried to stop him. He went out to the parking lot of the funeral home and sat on the curb. He put his head in his hands and sighed, feeling more alone than he had ever felt in his life.

He began to cry. Just quietly, the tears streaming silently down his face, not even helped along my sobs. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Mark couldn't be dead, how could he be dead?

Why?

Suddenly Roger felt a presence beside him. He didn't look up. If Joanne wanted to boss him around some more, she could wait.

"Excuse me."

The voice was unfamiliar. Roger looked up and saw a girl, maybe around thirteen, staring down at him. He said nothing.

"Am I related to you?" the girl asked. She had dark hair and took after the Jewish side of Mark's family, with a larger nose and big brown eyes. She seemed to notice that he was crying. "Oh… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…. I just had never seen you before and wondered…."

"It's no big deal," Roger whispered, wiping his eyes.

"Are you one of Uncle Mark's friends?"

Uncle?

Roger remembered with a start that Mark _had _been an uncle. His sister Cindy had three kids. "The best he had," Roger answered her. She nodded.

"I'm Jessica. Are you Roger?"

"Yeah."

She nodded. "I remember him talking about you last time he visited."

"How long ago was that?"

"A long time ago. I haven't seen him in a few years." She sat down beside Roger. "You're lucky you got to see him more. Every time he'd come over, he'd film movies that me and my little brother and sister put on. It was fun. We still have them."

"Oh." Roger felt awkward. He didn't want to discuss Mark with some kid he had never met.

Jessica was silent for a while, then said, "I can't look at it."

"Huh?"

"The body. I can't. It's too freaky. My mom said that I could wait for her outside, so that's what I'm doing."

"Oh," he said again.

"Was he in a lot of pain when he died?"

Roger raised an eyebrow at her. What the hell was her problem? "Yes," he said coldly, "as a matter of fact, he was."

"That's sad," she said quietly. Then asked, "What were his last words?"

Who the fuck did this girl think she was! Roger felt himself snap. In his mind he heard Mark's weak voice whispering, "Musetta."

"How the fuck should I know!" he all but shouted. Jessica started, looking at him like he had just grown another head. "I don't know where you get off asking me shit like this, but I don't wanna talk about it!"

"Roger!"

Joanne was suddenly behind him. "I know you're upset, but don't swear at this little girl…."

"I'LL SWEAR AT WHOEVER I WANT TO!" he screamed. She put a hand on his shoulder and he batted it away, standing up. "Leave me the fuck alone, Joanne. You're an unfeeling bitch. I don't wanna talk to you, you didn't even like Mark."

Joanne's face changed completely. Her jaw dropped and her eyes went soft and she let out a little audible breath of air. "Oh my God, Roger, is that what this is about?"

He didn't answer her. He didn't have to.

"Oh… oh Roger…. How could you think…. You don't think I'm _glad_ Mark passed away, do you?"

Roger shrugged.

Joanne looked at him incredulously. "How could you think that? I was _jealous_ of Mark, Roger, I didn't hate him. In fact, I liked him and I could see what Maureen saw in him and it scared me."

"Then why haven't you cried?" Roger looked her straight in the eyes. It took a moment for her to answer.

"I have," Joanne said harshly. "Just not in front of you or Maureen. I need to be strong for the two of you."

Just then, Maureen came out of the funeral home, looking like she was going to be sick. "Pookie," she said weakly, "can we go home?"

"Yes, Honeybear."

Mark's service was such a _service_. It made Roger want to pull an April right there in the pew. There was a priest _and_ a rabbi. As if it really mattered either way. There was some incense that made Roger sneeze twice and attract glares and people speaking Hebrew and others saying "And also with you" to the priest every five minutes and Roger wished he was safe on Joanne and Maureen's couch with his head under a blanket.

Relatives were crying softly, and others sat in their seats, staring at their hands because they hadn't known Mark well and felt awkward.

Roger did not listen to a word the priest said. He didn't know what he was talking about, He spoke about Mark's kindness and his passion for his work and it was horribly scripted and generic and made Roger want to puke.

The rabbi, however, had actually known Mark when he was a kid. Mark had had his Bar Mitzvah as his synagogue. He could truthfully tell about how much trouble Mark had had trying to learn Hebrew. He even described Mark's frustrated tears as it came time for his confirmation and he just couldn't grasp it.

"He had a difficult time of it," the rabbi reminisced. "But he came through. He didn't do wonderfully, as I remember, but he survived it."

The service took place outside in the cemetery where everyone was buried. It saved the problem of whether to have it in a synagogue or a church. They moved to a big square hole dug into the ground.

Holy shit, Roger thought as some metal contraption lowered the casket into the earth, Mark is in that box. Mark is in there and they're really going to bury him. Oh my God he's really gone.

Roger's knees suddenly felt weak. Luckily he was standing near a tree when they buckled and he could lean against it for support. He stared, horrified, at the people gathered around the hole. Mark was gone. He was really gone, he was never coming back, Roger would never see him again, not ever, his best friend was dead dead dead.

And with that thought, Roger felt his whole world come crashing down.


	6. Chapter 6

Yay! You've made it to the end!

---

He just lay on the couch with the blanket over his head. It was several days later, but that horrible feeling was still inside of him. The one that had come during the funeral when he had realized that Mark was really gone for good.

I'm all alone, he thought.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. I was supposed to die, not Mark.

How could this happen?

"Roger."

"Joanne," he mimicked.

"Time to take your medicine."

Roger did not even have the grace to remove the blanket from his head. "I'm not taking that shit. Get it away from me."

"Roger, don't go there again." There was warning in her voice. She snatched the blanket away.

"No," he told her calmly. "I'm done with it. I don't want it anymore."

She must have sensed the determined stubbornness in his voice.

"Fine. Don't take the antibiotics. But you have to take your AZT."

"No I don't."

"Yes, Roger, you do." She held the bottle of pills out to him.

His eyes flashed. "No."

"Damn it, Roger!" Joanne yelled, shaking the bottle in his direction. "Take the stupid pills!"  
"NO!" He stood up angrily and knocked the bottle out of her hand just as Maureen came around the corner.

"What's going—" She stopped and stared at the pill bottle by her feet. "Roger, why is your AZT over here?" She picked it up and held it out to him.

"Because I'm not taking it anymore," he told her levelly. "I don't want to."

Maureen looked at him blankly. "But… if you don't take it, it'll kill you."

Roger just shrugged.

Now Maureen's eyes narrowed angrily. Her body tensed up and she moved toward Roger before he knew what was happening.

"You take these pills," she said dangerously, getting right in his face. "You will not do this to me. I've lost more friends than I can handle, I won't let you. Take the fucking pills before I shove them down your throat."

"Take them yourself, I have nothing to live for."

Maureen snapped completely.

"TAKE YOUR GODDAMNED FUCKING PILLS!" she screeched, her face turning red. "I'LL SHOVE THIS WHOLE BOTTLE UP YOUR FUCKING ASS!"

Roger grabbed the bottle from her hand, taking a few steps backward. Then he dumped them onto the hardwood floor and began stomping on them.

He jumped on them and used as much force as he could, turning his AZT to powder, to dust, to crushed flour. He wouldn't take it, he wouldn't take it….

Maureen screamed as if she had been stabbed. She started hitting Roger as hard as she could, threatening him, sobbing, shouting. Roger took the blows, hardly flinching. The pain was nothing to what he felt inside. Joanne stood helpless with her hands over her mouth and her eyes wide until Maureen collapsed into a screaming, sobbing ball on the floor.

"Mark!" she wailed. "Mark, I love you, come back, please come back! Talk some sense into him! I love you, _I love you!_"

Joanne scooped her up into her arms and held her close, whispering soft platitudes in her ear. Roger picked up a glass figure off the mantle and threw it against the wall. He continued around the room, shattering anything breakable he could find, glass animals and statues, vases, mirrors, plates, slamming it at the walls, the floor, the couch. Maureen was still moaning horribly. Roger felt as though he may explode.

He left the apartment as quickly as he could.

It was dark when he arrived at the cemetery. He took the long way through the graves, acknowledging those he knew so well. Those deaths that had devastated him, but yet had not broken him. He had always had someone to be there when these deaths occurred. Now he had no one. He had Joanne and Maureen, but they were essentially no one.

Mark had been the only someone. The only person Roger had ever really cared about. He realized it now. What the term "soul mate" really meant. It didn't have to be a romantic thing. You could have a romance, be in love with April or Mimi, but not be their soul mate. Mark and Roger's souls had been connected in a different way. It wasn't romantic. It was more than that, so much more. Collins and Angel had been lucky because they were soul mates and lovers, but it was obvious to Roger that it didn't always work that way.

He arrived at Mark's grave. The dirt was still fresh and flowers surrounded the stone that read Mark Cohen and revealed that he had died before he even reached thirty.

"How could you leave me alone, Mark?" Roger said into the darkness. "How could you? It wasn't supposed to be like this. I was supposed to die first, it was supposed to be me! I was supposed to die all weak in a hospital bed like everyone else and have you there with me telling me I'd be fine when I wouldn't be and NOW YOU WON'T BE THERE, MARK!" He kicked a bouquet of white lilies. "I'm going to die all by myself! All alone!" he started to cry as hard as Maureen. "_You_ were supposed to be the one left alone! You and Joanne and Maureen, and I would be dead with Mimi and Collins and Angel and April and you would go on without me there to hinder you. You wouldn't have my outbursts or my hangovers to deal with, and you were supposed to be a real filmmaker and now you won't be!" He sobbed painfully hard. "I'm all alone without you, I…."

He began to cough. He coughed horribly hard and he couldn't stop.

Roger leaned on the tombstone for support, coughing uncontrollably, so hard that he threw up, right on a flower wreath. His body felt weak and shaky. He collapsed onto his knees, shaking, still coughing, the cold, wet dirt soaking through his black jeans….

Luckily for Roger, Joanne had insisted on following him. She later admitted to him that she had heard a voice that sounded strangely familiar tell her to go find Roger. She thought it was Mark. He just thought she was bullshitting him, and she probably was.

Roger continued to refuse any medication.

The same way Collins had when Angel died.

Roger didn't know that for a fact, but he figured it was probably true.

After all.

Collins had been in the same place Roger was:

Very healthy, considering he had no immune system.

But just like Collins, Roger had lost the most important thing in his life.

Best friend. Soul mate.

Glory.

Screw glory.

Mark deserved glory more than Roger did.

So let the virus take hold

Like a sunset.

---

And this is where I leave you. Hope you liked it! Give me some feedback if you will, but pretty please no flames even if I deserve them because I write this stuff for fun and to DEstress. Oh! And I appoligize for the Jewish funeral, because I'm not Jewish and I don't know how they work and I've only even been to one Christian funeral, so I'm sorry for things that aren't quite right! I love you for reading this far! Thanks!


End file.
